


Autopsy

by asuralucier



Series: Bonum Fidei [1]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Coffee, Courtship and Guns, Daisy Lives, Friendly Exes, Gen, Getting Back Together, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pre-Canon, Rare Friends, Winston is Amused, complicated feelings, marcus lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-25 07:16:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17720603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: ”You told me to come to you if I ever needed anything,” John says. No apologies. No nothing. Just straight talk.Just a indulgent rewrite of the first movie and also Marcus lives.





	1. Need

**Author's Note:**

> This movie made me look at Willem Dafoe (vaguely) as a sexual being. I think I'm going to go and hide under the covers. Just a little two-parter to help me process my feelings after the first film. I plan to watch _John Wick: Chapter 2_ very soon!

”You told me to come to you if I ever needed anything,” John says. No apologies. No nothing. Just straight talk. 

“Okay,” Marcus says, edging the door open wider with his foot. John doesn’t seem to be bleeding anywhere and there doesn’t seem to be an armored car or anything of that nature careening around the corner accompanied by bullets. John always piques his interest, “Do you want some coffee?” 

“Coffee, sure.” John steps inside. He steals a glance down at Marcus’s slippers and toes off his shoes. 

 

Marcus drinks an inordinate amount of coffee. He is so into his coffee that he has a regular delivery of various single-origin roasts (mostly from South America but sometimes he makes exceptions) delivered to a certain P.O. Box in Staten Island from a certain coffee shop in London. But the deliveries are not so regular that they could be traced, of course not. Marcus is meticulous about irregularity because habits, comforts that makes a man complacent in his life, is what is going to kill him. 

By virtue of that, Marcus shouldn’t really be letting John Wick in the door, but he can’t help himself. 

“It’s Helen,” John says, his voice ever so shaky. “We got back the results. It...it doesn’t look great. Her doctor’s suggested that I start attending a support group to deal with my emotions going forward.” 

Speaking of habits, John’s not doing so great himself, it looks like. Marcus goes and rifles through his coffees to select an Indonesian roast, whose coffee berries are processed through the digestive tract of the asian palm civet unharmed and later, the berries are collected, cleaned, and then finally roasted. It is a very local, protected process. It’s also the most expensive roast that Marcus has in his apartment to date. Not that he is trying to show off or anything. 

“I gather you don’t want to.” Marcus is careful not to look at him, as he dries his cafetiere with a dishtowel. After that, he tips in ground coffee beans with a silver spoon. 

“I would like to come to terms with my feelings,” John agrees. “But I doubt that the support group is the best way to do it.” 

“So I’m the support group,” Marcus says. He finds that he doesn’t mind. That’s another thing about his and John’s shared profession, even if John would never miss an opportunity to remind Marcus that he is _retired_ : it’s difficult to be choosy when bullets are involved. Ambivalence is safe, a matter of survival, if you will. 

John smiles with one edge of his mouth; it’s a smile of a man who is on the verge of giving up, but not quite yet, “Not exactly. You do serve better coffee.” 

 

Helen Wick-née-Ferguson is a force of nature. Only a force of nature, not unlike a seismic geological event, would stop a lone wind like John Wick. When John tells Marcus about her for the first time, something changes in John, like the sun spilling into the man’s eyes and a certain warmth floods John’s gaze and his voice. As if he knows he can finally come out of hiding. 

Marcus gets a Save-The-Date through his letterbox and it turns out he’s in Jakarta that weekend anyway. 

He RSPV’s no to the wedding and sends some nice coffee to John’s address. He’s happy for them, really. 

 

Marcus can understand why John likes Helen. There’s something about her that is gregarious and _alive_. The liveliness that is affixed to her person gives him a funny twinge near his ribcage. Marcus runs into the couple during a leisurely jog in Central Park and he almost thinks that John did this on purpose. 

“This is Helen, my wife,” says John. 

“John talks about you all the time,” Helen says. “It’s nice to put a face to the name.” 

“All good things.” John assures him. His smile is infectious. “Mostly about how you save my hide.” 

Marcus knows it’s a bad idea, but he accepts their invitation to dinner the following Thursday. Helen roasts a mean leg of lamb and it doesn’t take long for Marcus to become a regular guest at _chez_ Wick. 

 

“...What now?” 

Prostitutes, Marcus thinks, never ask ‘what now,’ and he’s known a fair share of them in his time. You never ask ‘what now’ unless you want something and it’s odd that John would ask such a wanting question. People like him were never left wanting, not for long. 

As for Marcus, he’s left wanting a lot of the time, but he’s learned to deal with it. He is usually the one left asking “what now?” and the reality of the upper hand nearly gives him whiplash. When Marcus meets John’s gaze, it’s clear that the kid is really asking him _what now_ , with nothing attached. 

“Now...” Marcus draws out the word. “You could shower. Clean yourself up.” He passes a hand by John’s thigh, where a telling stickiness is still on his skin. “I’ll make you some coffee for after.” 

John grins, boyish and knowing. “I’d like that.” 

 

“Here,” Marcus says. “Zopiclone. It’s a bit expired but I keep all my pills in the fridge.” 

John narrows his eyes, “How much is a bit?” 

“A couple of months,” Marcus has to pause and think. “Nine months, I was in Colombia. Anyway, you don’t have to take them. It’s there if you want it.” 

“You sound very sure that I’d be staying the night,” John sounds amused. 

“Pills travel well.” Marcus points out. “You could take them with you.” 

But just in case, he goes and makes up the spare room. 

 

John can’t bear the idea of leaving Helen alone when it’s visiting hours so Marcus volunteers from time to time. He doesn’t sit with her for a long time because it’s not a good thing if Marcus becomes recognizable around the hospital, but it’s the thought that counts and as far as favors go, it’s a small one. 

Marcus tries to make it a point to sit with Helen when it’s meal times. After all, food goes down easier with company and nurses are always too busy to keep track of who comes in and out. 

“...Let me guess,” Helen smiles wanly, “Novelist? Private Detective? Cartel enforcer? Car thief?”

“I’m sorry?” 

“John won’t tell me what he does -- did -- for a living,” Helen says. “I thought I might have better luck with you.” 

Helen’s lunch comes on a tray and looking at the various lumps of gray makes Marcus want to lose his own lunch.

“And yet you married him without getting to the bottom of things,” Marcus can’t help but be impressed. The source of this feeling is yet undetermined. He is somewhere between admiring John’s gumption and charisma (because what else could it be?) and Helen’s show of unshakeable faith. 

“I don’t think it is fair to judge a man by his mistakes.” Helen looks at him. “I certainly wouldn’t want to be judged by mine.” 

Marcus’s interest, despite himself, is piqued. Birds of a feather, _et cetera_ , even if his interest in Helen will probably wane at a very specific point. Reaching that point seems unlikely in their current circumstance but that's neither here nor there. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” 

That makes Helen laugh, but the laugh dissolves into a cough which grabs the attention of the attending nurse. Marcus avoids her gaze and after the nurse wanders away, he offers to go buy Helen a burger. 

 

Winston is amused. He has always had a low opinion of Marcus, in that Marcus takes things too personally. So far as Winston is concerned, Marcus's only redeeming quality is his eagle eye and calm trigger finger. They aren't even qualified to be viewed as two separate things and therefore denied their own inherent virtue.

“You wouldn’t be say that if I go and make the kid the best shot in the Americas,” Marcus says. 

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Winston returns amiably. “...Cigar?” 

 

“Helen thinks you’re a car thief or a cartel runner,” Marcus says to John one night, as they split Chinese takeout. Chin’s from down the road, real good stuff. Marcus is significantly less picky about his Chinese than he is about his coffee. It all works out, more or less.

“It’s an inside joke,” says John, a touch smug. 

Marcus wonders what they make of him, to let him in on an inside joke inside a marriage, but he doesn’t question it and reaches for another fried egg roll. 

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” John says. “She knows I’m retired.” 

 

Helen dies and exactly four people attend the funeral: John, Helen’s sister and her husband, and a priest.


	2. Want

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now five chapters because I have lots to say. Hope you guys don't mind! Thanks for the comments and kudos!

John buys a car, exactly two weeks after they’d put Helen on the ground. She’s a beauty, a ‘69 Mustang that apparently John had a hand in personally restoring under Aurelio’s watchful eye at his chop shop. 

John asks Marcus if he’d like to come for a ride, see his baby in action. Marcus is hungover from two transatlantic flights and a killer layover in Schipol. But he gulps coffee the way he hasn’t done in a decade and agrees. She _is_ a marvel and handles beautifully. But Marcus does have to duck into a gas station toilet while John gases up following the excursion. 

“So long as you don’t call your car your baby again, yes? She deserves better than that.” 

 

Not even a week after that, John shows up with a dog, a pretty shy little thing that burrows itself contently in the crook of John’s elbow. 

Marcus arches an eyebrow, “...House trained?” 

John says, “Yup. Helen says that the car doesn’t count.” Here, a sheepish note creeps into his voice. 

Marcus makes a mental note to start keeping kibble around the apartment. 

 

Marcus presses the barrel of his gun into the side of the kid’s head and John doesn’t even flinch. Instead, John says, “...It only works if I know that you’re going to shoot me at some stage. And you’re not. Not unless you want a global contract out on your head.” 

“We’re not on Continental grounds,” Marcus points out, for the sake of conformity. They are, in fact, in an underground gun-range fashioned out of an abandoned subway station; a space that might as well be linked to the Continental and therefore will be well within Winston’s reach and certainly his ear. But there are flexibilities to here, as opposed to right smack in the middle of the hotel lobby, say. They are not alone, but the guy paid to look after the guns while this place is really empty is paid a handsome sum to turn a blind eye when it isn’t. 

“I’m not talking about rules,” John cocks his head and curls a hand around Marcus’s gun. “I’m talking about value. I know what I’m worth.” 

“And how much is that?” 

John squares himself. He is taller than Marcus, but Marcus thinks that it’s easy enough, to reach up and wrap his hand around the kid’s neck and then to pull the trigger. “I’m worth a million, at least.” 

“Just passing seven figures isn’t anything to get out of bed for,” Marcus says, clinging on to the veneer of experience that he has over John. It’s not a lie; Marcus is at the point in his career that jobs should be at least seven figures before he’d consider taking them. This means he doesn’t work much but when he does, he makes it count. Turning the barrel away from John finally, Marcus aims and shoots. A perfect bullseye right between the eyes of the target. 

John looks impressed, even as he puts his hands to his ears. 

“I have value too,” Marcus tells him. “Now you. Watch your alignment. Remember to breathe.” 

 

“Does it have a name?” 

“It’s a she,” John says as the beagle sniffs around his ankle. “I’ve been calling her Dog.” 

“That’s terrible,” Marcus rolls his eyes. “Right up there with calling your car ‘baby.’” 

“In my defense I don’t do that anymore.” 

Marcus whistles and she -- Dog -- pads over to him and gives his knuckles a deferential sniff.

“No offense,” Marcus tells her, settling a hand behind the beagle’s ear, “But I am really trying to save you from a life of mediocrity. You deserve to be treated like a princess. -- How about Princess?” 

“Definitely not,” John says without even thinking about it. 

Later, they share more Chinese from Chin’s and put on a nature documentary. What promised to be a pleasant romp throughout Safari Africa devolves into herds of painted wolves mauling each other and leaving each other for dead. The dog is not having any of it and trying to crawl her way up John’s sweater. 

John looks at Marcus and says, “What’s the calmest thing you can think of right now?” 

“Um,” Marcus has to think. “A field of daisies.” Which is patently ridiculous, but the thought of it is _calming_. He hasn’t put his imagination to work in a calming way for a good long time and daisies isn’t a bad first try. 

“How about that?” John says, looking down at the dog. She peers back at him, “Daisy. You want to be called Daisy?” 

Daisy makes a leap for John’s nose. 

 

There’s a lot of things the two of them don’t talk about. 

They don’t, for example, talk about John’s disastrous debut in San Francisco. A private helicopter had been briefly involved and a local paper (Marcus recalls the _San Francisco Chronicle_ , but he might be wrong) runs an exclusive about the next _Mission Impossible_ sequel starting filming early in the Bay Area. Later, the film comes out and Winston opines that it is a _terrible_ piece of cinema. A rogue helicopter crash might have improved the action significantly. What Marcus learns from that brief exchange is that Winston apparently finds time to go to the movies.

They also don’t talk about John’s penchant for separating out peas or beans on his plate during mealtimes, except for that once when Marcus had remarked in passing that it was never good for a hitman working internationally to have such an obvious tell like OCD. After all, when one is on display at a restaurant (usually nothing less than four stars and always under the watchful purview of a maitre’d), it pays to not be memorable. 

They don’t talk about alignments outside of how John likes to twitch to the left when he pulls the trigger. How a bullet might misalign and paralyse a target for life (and how sometimes it is more important to make sure the target gets the message in that way, although that sort of job costs extra). 

They don’t talk about how John sneaks into Marcus’s room at the Continental in the dead of night and aligns himself perfectly level with Marcus’s cock. Sometimes, it’s just John on his knees and other times John displays impressive flexibility and be it him on his back, stomach, or indeed, bent over in the shower, he never forgets that alignment is important. 

And of course, they don’t talk about Helen. 

 

Marcus wakes up to Daisy nuzzling his face. When he wakes up a second time, he nearly knocks John’s head near his elbow.

Marcus is careful to stay very still. 

 

Now this is more familiar. 

“I’m gonna, bleed all over your carpet,” John says, with effort. He has Daisy under one arm and she whimpers in obvious pain. “Could you just take her? Make sure she’s…” 

Marcus is not nearly awake enough for this, “Just get in here -- both of you. Keep your shoes on. We can worry about that later.” 

John drags himself into Marcus’s living room and they both stare at Daisy. 

“She looks like she needs stitches,” Marcus says. “And you need --”

“Painkillers,” John supplies drily. “Lots of them.”

“I’ll call Dr. Moon,” Marcus runs a hand through his hair. It occurs to him that he is in his dressing gown and in another version of events he might have thought about being embarrassed. 

“I wasn’t aware he worked outside of the Continental,” John says. His breathing is shallow and his eyes slip closed. Marcus goes and slaps him across the face. 

“Stay awake. Talk to Daisy. Make sure she stays awake,” Marcus locates his phone, next to a nearly empty tumbler of bourbon. On the second thought, he fills the tumbler to the brim and thrusts it at John without pretense, “And drink this. I’d rather have you drunk than have you faint on me. Moon doesn’t work outside of the hotel normally but I’ll square it with Winston. It’s not for you to worry about.” 

“Marcus,” John starts, “You don’t --”

“Save it,” Marcus says. 

 

No less than fifteen minutes later (a timestamp that is markedly impressive for New York even at this time of night), Dr. Moon arrives. The doctor looks like he’s recently gotten out of bed with a prostitute. There was strange whiff of something almost feminine and obtrusive near his collar and his glasses are skewed. But once he takes in the situation he is all business. 

Moon keeps a conversational tone as he gets to work. He attends to John first, despite the man’s protests that Daisy should take priority, “And you don’t have any idea who did this to you?” 

“Somebody with big balls it looks like,” Marcus tries and John, dizzy from very good bourbon with a mighty dose of pain, _laughs_. 

“Don’t make him laugh. I don’t want to poke him somewhere I shouldn’t,” Moon says, sternly. 

 

To distract Daisy from the pain, Marcus goes and fetches her a large tablespoon of peanut butter. She whines with effort, but all in all seems all of the sudden more awake. 

“Doc, is she going to be okay?” 

Moon’s expression suggests that John has better things to worry about, “I admit I usually don’t do this --” he gestures with his needle, “ -- to dogs. But she seems -- awake. That’s the most important thing. The stitches will heal ugly and she will likely be crippled. She’ll be fine.” 

“And me?” John attempts to lift his arm and he winces, “I need to be mobile.” 

“You need sleep,” Marcus says. “Do you want some more bourbon?” 

 

Marcus calls Charlie the next day and makes one of those reservations that people make when they’ve been stood up on a date. Charlie doesn’t seem terribly amused, but shows up anyway with just a single guy, a mop, and a bucket instead of his usual crew. 

John hasn’t moved from Marcus’s couch and neither has Daisy. There’s a weather forecast on and both are watching a fast-moving storm sweeping east with interest. 

“Hey, Charlie,” John waves with a grin that is three parts painkillers and one part Daisy. 

Charlie says, “Jesus. Do I want to know?” 

Marcus says, “Probably not.” Charlie does a quick sweep of the place and Marcus slips him a coin on the way out. After they are alone again, John makes a noise and tosses the blanket aside to stand. As if reading Marcus’s mind, Daisy is already affixing her owner with a reproachful look. 

“What? I need a piss.” 

John leaves the door open just a sliver, as if he is trying to reciprocate a sort of trust. The sort of trust that they also don’t talk about. Marcus appreciates the gesture, because if John passes out on the john, it saves Marcus the hassle of breaking down the door. 

“Hey, Marcus?” 

“Kitchen,” Marcus calls out. “Coffee?” 

On the one hand, John still looks a bit sallow and gray, like a cup of Brazilian San Augustin would not go too amiss; it’s a medium bodied roast, subtle but it does the job. On the other hand, John is walking upright now and that’s something. 

John declines but lingers anyway, “Here, take this. I’ve been meaning to.” 

Marcus follows John’s gaze down to the kitchen counter. The gold coin glitters tellingly against the black marble top, “I don’t need it. Besides, you’re retired.” 

John sways, but holds his ground, “I want you to have it. As a gesture.” 

“As long as that’s all it is. A gesture.” Marcus swipes the coin and drops it in his pocket. He thinks he is beginning to understand Winston and his rules vis-à-vis the Continental; it sucks doing business at home.


	3. Lighthouse

Marcus and Viggo Tarasov are acquainted but it is not as if Marcus has a choice in the matter. New York is cramped enough as it is, but when you add in a very particular industry with a very specific set of rules, then the city gets even smaller. 

“I’ll get to the point,” Viggo says. “Would you kill John Wick for two million dollars? Funds available immediately upon receipt of proof of death. I prefer his teeth.” 

And here Marcus had been about to do the polite thing and offer Viggo a seat and some coffee. 

“...Did I miss something, here?” Marcus says. He eyes his watch with some apprehension. John and Daisy have gone out for a walk; he doubts that even if Viggo takes a look around, that he will find any trace of John. John has since harnessed his OCD tendencies to better use. He uses Marcus’s shower and fixes himself (and sometimes Daisy) simple meals in Marcus’s kitchen but there’s not a trace of him anywhere. “What business do you have with John, anyway? He is retired. It wasn’t exactly a secret.” Not to mention that John used to work nearly exclusively for Viggo and his cabal of Russians, this seems like bad form. 

Viggo sighs, “...Are you acquainted with my son?” 

Iosef Tarasov’s reputation precedes him. The kid is, if a consensus can be believed, a junkie, stupid, and a piss poor shot. Somehow, it isn’t entirely surprising. “Afraid that I haven’t had the pleasure.” 

“I have to protect my son,” Viggo says. “Although I have to admit he brings me very little pleasure nowadays, only headaches and trouble. Too preoccupied with his dick and his pride.” 

Marcus winces, “Right.” 

“Will you kill him or not?” Viggo seems impatient. That’s on par for the course; he’s anxious for the safety of his son, and also Viggo probably considers himself an important person. This is only somewhat true, Marcus thinks. It is no coincidence that Viggo's recent descent into the average is tied to John's still profound absence.

 _I’m worth a million, at least_. The memory of it makes Marcus want to smile but he holds himself. “Two million is selling him a bit short, isn’t it? At least three-five. Especially if you’re expecting trouble.”

Viggo immediately looks uncomfortable, “These things always come with trouble.” 

It’s on the tip of Marcus’s tongue to ask, but something tells him that neutrality might be best, “...The contract, is it exclusive?” 

Viggo shifts again, “I’m afraid not. But I’m not advertising the three-five, if you catch my meaning.” 

“Well then, consider it done,” Marcus says. 

 

“Why is Viggo Tarasov wanting to kill you?” It seems like a worthwhile question and one Marcus brings up to John while he sets down a cup of coffee in front of the man. This time a dark roast variety from Vietnam, which bears the wonderful distinction of being roasted in sugar instead of the usual sand. 

John is holding a spoonful of peanut butter still while Daisy goes to town. Moon is right (not that Marcus thought he wouldn’t be), the stitches will scar and it will be ugly. Daisy is also coming to terms, so it seems, with the fact that one of her hind legs will always let her down. Now if she wants up on the couch she whines accordingly. 

John’s gaze is instantly alert, but he is careful not to startle Daisy, “Viggo wants to kill me?” 

“Well, not personally,” Marcus hedges. “You know how these things go. He offered me three-five.” 

“Cheapskate,” John shrugs one shoulder. “But that explains a lot. What do they call his son? Half-cocked Tarasov, is it? I should have fucking recognized him.” 

“In your defense, the kid is pretty immemorable.” Marcus wonders if it’s time to break out the bourbon. It’s a bit early in the day, but he does so much for John already; this hardly seems like anything, “...Please don’t be thinking what I think you’re thinking.” The moment the words leave his mouth, Marcus regrets them immensely. 

“Iosef and his cronies burglarized my house,” John says, gathering heat. “They tried to _kill my dog_ and they _took my car_.” 

Daisy gives a little whimper and scurries off the couch. She goes and wraps herself around Marcus’s ankles and Marcus scoops her up and scratches her behind her ear the way she likes. 

“You’re scaring Daisy,” Marcus says. 

John seems to deflate at this and he gives a little whistle. Daisy exchanges a glance that is entirely human with Marcus. Marcus shrugs in turn, “Go on, it’ll be all right.” Daisy still doesn’t move. 

John takes in a deep breath, let it out, “I don’t suppose this contract is exclusive?” 

“Afraid not,” Marcus says. “But if it makes you feel any better, he’s only offering everyone else two million. I know about ten people that won’t get out of bed. Count yourself lucky.” 

“Yeah, well,” John lifts one side of his mouth, “What do you suggest we do about the other fifty-five?” 

 

“And?” Winston fixes Marcus with a knowing look. “Given that you look like the cat that got the cream, was it worth it?”

“I’m not going to give you details,” Marcus says. “Let’s just go with yes.” Marcus is going to keep details to himself, such as the involuntary mewing sound that John sometimes tries to muffle when Marcus passes his tongue over the long-dried ink of John’s tattoos, snaking down the neat column of his spine, finally to lodge himself so neatly inside of John that John abandons mewing for something else. Or, that John knows what Marcus lets him get away with now (nearly anything) and fully enjoys his privileges. 

“I’d imagine so,” Winston works his lips into a tell-tale smirk. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Marcus narrows his eyes. 

“Nothing,” Winston spreads his hands out in front of him, blue veined and the testament to years and years of experience. “Or, nearly nothing. People talk.” 

“Who, exactly?” 

“More about Jonathan than yourself,” Winston says fairly, lithely sidestepping Marcus’s question entirely. “Though you probably gathered that without my telling you. Presentation. Marcus, you haven’t forgotten the importance of appearance in our line of work, certainly? Weakness is all well and good, we’re human, we’re bound to suffer attachments until we go back to the earth, but this doesn’t mean you have to compromise yourself so obviously.” _Obvious_ from Winston is a strong word. Marcus’s brain does the rest and translates that languid sentence to: “you dumb fucker.” 

“Are you done?” Marcus works his jaw. He doesn’t mean to speak so abruptly to Winston, but he doesn’t like it, the way the man’s admonishment sits so close-cut to the bone. 

“I don’t mean to speak out of turn,” Winston smiles at him, a pitying smile, as if Marcus is a rookie again trying to figure out why his gun jammed at a crucial moment at a conference lobby in Sydney. It is, to this day, still much better than a chopper blowing up in mid-air, but the shame that rushes to Marcus’s temple to accompany his dull thrumming headache is fresh and real. 

“No, you never mean to,” Marcus stands. There’s bourbon half-drunk in his glass. He tips the rest of it back and shoves the thought of his mind, that Winston must be thinking him a pleb for still liking the stuff. “And it isn’t a compromise. It’s.”

“Marcus. Would you die for him?” The lingering silence which dangles at the end of Winston’s question strongly implies that Marcus should really think on his answer before he opened his damned mouth. 

Marcus doesn’t even think about it, “Yes.” 

 

“Would you look at that,” Helen says, peering at the contents of her cheeseburger. “No onions, no ketchup, extra pickles. How’d you know?” 

Marcus shrugs, “He might have mentioned.” 

She looks at him, “You two speak about how I like my fast food. And yet you skipped our wedding.” 

“I was working that weekend,” Marcus sits back down in the rickety plastic chair beside her bed. “The drugs ain’t going to move themselves, honey.” 

“No offense, but you’re too good to be a drug mule,” Helen says. “Local kingpin, at least, or bust.” She raises the burger in a salute and takes a bite. Then she turns a bit gray and Marcus has to go and appropriate a plastic bowl from a neighboring room. The patient in the room next to Helen’s is hooked up to a series of monitors and Marcus sincerely hopes the guy isn’t dead. He’s still beeping, but barely. Marcus empties out the contents of the plastic bowl into a sink beside the man’s bed. 

Then Marcus goes back to Helen and turns away as she throws up. It seems the only polite thing to do. He’s thinking he might leave, but that seems markedly less polite. 

“...I’m sorry,” she says. 

“For what?” 

“I imagine that you’d have better things to do than watch me throw up on a -- what’s today? I’ve lost track.” 

As opposed to John, who is _somewhere_ and counting days. Marcus never asked where he goes off to and doesn’t plan to start. “Friday. And I don’t mind.” 

“Who are you to John, really, Marcus?” 

What Marcus is to John and vice versa doesn’t have a simple answer. Most days, Marcus doesn’t even devote time to thinking about it, to puzzling it out. Winston once said to him that the spirit of ignorant avoidance suited no one, especially not someone who was paid to wrangle the details that they did. It was yet another way of saying _you dumb fucker_ , but on this point Marcus disagreed. They’ve gone through so many iterations already -- infatuation was undoubtedly one stage -- but in the grand scheme of things, only a drop in the ocean. 

“I’m a drop in his ocean,” Marcus says. 

“What does that make me in this analogy?” 

Marcus has to think, “A lighthouse. The sea only has eyes for you.” 

“Imaginative,” Helen closes her eyes. “And if my light goes out?” 

“Imagination...is not my strong suit,” Marcus admits. “And as such, I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

 

“I don’t want to fuck anyone else,” John says, impudent and lovely and so fucking _offended_ that Marcus’s heart almost bursts. “And we’ve been careful; we don’t flaunt it, and it isn’t fucking any of Winston’s business or anyone else’s.” 

“But _yes_ it is,” Marcus holds steady, though all he really wants to do is press John up against the door jamb -- to make it hurt a little, so that the kid would come back to himself -- and shut him up. “Do you know how easy it would be for people to grab your balls this way?” 

John says, “Okay, so we get out. It’s not as if we’re hurting for cash or places to go.” 

“Who are we? Bonnie and Clyde?” Marcus feels a vicious sort of laugh tear out of throat and it is, when let out into the open, like a bullet, pointed to wound. He can see it in John’s face, that the proverbial bullet does what it’s meant to, nestle snug right next to the kid’s ego, bleeding him out slowly. “No one leaves this life, John.” 

“I heard that there is,” John starts. 

“There is a reason they call it the Impossible Task,” Marcus says. “It’s impossible. And stupid. And, will probably leave you in a state that you’re unlikely to live for more than a couple of hours, a couple of days in your new freedom.” 

John deflates and Marcus goes to him. He wraps his arms around John’s waist and presses his head into John’s chest, hearing the pounding of an angry heart unsure of what to do in its current state. 

“Well,” says John. “I don’t suppose you have a list of people for me?” 

“...Excuse me?” 

“I don’t listen to rumors,” John says brusquely. His chin is near Marcus’s ear and even Marcus’s cartilage grows warm at the way John works the muscles of his jaw. “I assume you do. So, tell me where to start, and I’ll start there.” 

 

“I took a pop at him in Central Park,” says Perkins. She is wearing nothing but one of Marcus’s t-shirts and helping herself to his gin. It’s a newish buy from a distillery in Lisbon and when poured neat, the gin is blue. When tonic is added, the whole drink would take on a pinkish hue. Perkins does not add tonic. 

“I’m guessing you missed.” Marcus says.

She growls at him, but good naturedly enough and sits down on his bed again. But Marcus knows he is right because if Perkins has two million spare she would have had much better places to be. 

“Are you not going for it, then? Professional courtesy or some shit?” 

“Or some shit,” Marcus agrees, “John is a man of endurance. No skin off my back letting others tire him out before I make my move.” 

Perkins was on the list of people Marcus had given John exactly once, a long time ago. It wasn’t only John’s stamina that was enduring because Marcus spies now, a faint pink on her cheeks. 

“Anyway,” Marcus says. “As pleasant as this is, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I have some hunting of my own to do.” 

Perkins shrugs, “Can I at least shower?” 

“Sure,” Marcus says. “I’ve got spare towels. Make yourself at home.”

Besides, blood is much easier to clean on a linoleum surface than woolen carpet. Marcus needs to get back onto Charlie’s good side.


	4. (In)dentured

“Do you board?” John says to Charon and Charon looks at Daisy trembling in John’s arms. Marcus idly wonders if there was such a thing as dog PTSD. There probably is, poor thing. 

“She’s house-trained,” Marcus adds, because Charon looks like he would care very much about stuff like that. “Very good about fetching slippers in the morning. I’m sure she could be persuaded to fetch your paper.” On a similar note, Charon looks like the kind of man who enjoys his dailies in an ironic way. 

Charon looks towards him now and then back to John again, “The hotel itself, unfortunately, does not offer such a service as we have no kennel. However, I would be willing to assume the responsibility.”

John says, “Thank you.” 

Daisy turns her head towards Marcus, as if to ask for a second opinion and Marcus clicks between his teeth. The fact that Charon would offer surprises him, but then it doesn’t. 

“And before you go to your rooms, gentlemen, the Manager would like to see both of you. At once.” 

 

“I feel like I’ve been called to the Principal’s office,” Marcus tries, as they go up in the elevator. 

“Did that happen a lot?” John asks, a mild grin playing about his lips. The lightness doesn’t reach anywhere else on his person. 

“I was what they called a smart-aleck,” Marcus says. “I’m sure there were more choice words floating around my behavior in rural Kentucky, but that’s the one that sticks to my mind.” 

“You’re from _Kentucky_?” 

“A version of me was.” It feels strange admitting it. It’s a part of himself that Marcus longs to forget the most. Still, every once in a while he gets drunk enough on too-good bourbon and his diphthongs get sloppy. He has, thankfully, never slipped up in front of John Wick. 

John seems to think about this, and then files the information away to chew on later. The elevator opens to the executive floor; there is only one room on this floor and they get in without incident. They find Winston puffing on a cigar on the balcony. 

“Ah, Marcus, Jonathan. Are either of you injured?” Given the levity behind his words, Winston is probably only expecting one answer. 

John has a scratch across his left cheekbone and his knuckles look bruised on both hands. There’s the faintest of limps that he is trying to compensate for, but John says, “No.” 

As for Marcus, he’s got a black eye. A black eye he totally deserves given the nature of Perkins’s last breath. It’s not even worth mentioning, “No.” 

Winston turns and fixes both of them with a look, “You’ve gotten yourselves into a pickle, haven’t you?” 

“Just me,” says John. “And I’m taking care of it.” 

“I have the utmost faith,” Winston says. “But I thought you’d like to know that as of two hours ago after that debacle in Central Park and the untimely death of a certain Miss Perkins, Viggo Tarasov has upgraded the contract to extend globally. The reward has accordingly doubled to reflect this. And it’s another million on top of that if enough teeth are delivered to Viggo for him to make a full set of dentures.” Winston shudders at this, no doubt, in the name of bad taste, “...I took a brief glance at the flight manifests this morning. You’re going to have your work cut out for you.”

“And you’re telling me this because why?” John narrows his eyes. “I thought Managers don’t get to meddle with active contracts.”

“This is hardly meddling. This is rumor. I like you, Jonathan,” Winston smiles at him. “Always have. And Marcus needs all the help he can get.” 

Marcus rolls his eyes. 

 

Back in the elevator, John fixes Marcus with a long look, “You’re thinking about telling me not to go after Iosef, aren’t you?” 

“Fuck that, “ Marcus says; he thinks about it only a second, to remind John that he technically already did, but John doesn’t do subtle. “Kid should learn some manners.” 

“...She wouldn’t have wanted me to.” John says finally. He twists his wedding ring and also Marcus’s gut. He hardly says Helen’s name nowadays, but there’s no denying her presence in the elavator and then elsewhere. 

“And she would be right,” Marcus says. “You’re retired. If you’re not retired, you hardly know what kind of idiot will come crawling out of the woodwork wanting something.” 

“Is that what you really think?” 

“I think I need a drink,” Marcus says, telling the truth. 

 

They get room service. 

Apparently the head chef of the Continental in New York is new. He used to work for the likes of Hester Blumenthal and the duck, though an imitation of what Blumenthal serves in his own restaurant, is fantastic. Along with the duck, they get recommended a Chianti that Marcus thinks he’ll grow into, given time. The Chianti is curiously not charged to their room, compliments of the management. 

John, on the other hand, seems to really enjoy the wine. The duck less so. 

“Marcus.”

“Hm.” 

“You’ve had a drink,” John says, pointedly tipping more Chianti into Marcus’s glass. “Now tell me what you really think.” 

“I think Helen would have wanted you to start over. I mean, really start over -- and not go back to where you were,” Marcus says.

“You think I can start over with a five-million bounty on my head; if it keeps going the way it’s going, even you might want to have a go at me soon,” John says. “You’re crazy.” 

“You’ve done one Impossible Task for Helen before.” Marcus points out. “You can do another. Fortune favors the bold and all that.” 

“I was younger then,” John says. “And possibly too stupid to listen to reason.” 

Marcus gulps more wine, “When you talk like that I have no idea what you want from me.” 

 

“Isn’t it obvious what I want?” 

_I am so fucking dead_. That’s the first thought that passes through Marcus’s mind, as John turns the lock to his hotel room. He has resigned himself to variations of this fantasy; almost always of John wanting. When the desire gets too much for just his hand and his imagination, Marcus goes looking. Never the same person twice save the odd exception, but that’s not so much practicality as Marcus simply only having a certain measure of fidelity on his person, already spent. 

“You can’t have it.” 

John pouts, looking younger and younger in the way that makes breathing painful for Marcus. He absconds to the minibar (not so far away) and pours himself bourbon. He was told once, that the Continental doesn’t have a supplier for bourbon but there is always bourbon when Marcus wants a room. 

Winston likes him too, in an odd way. 

“And why not?” 

Marcus shrugs. “Probably not the smartest thing we could be doing. And you wouldn’t want to.” 

“I want to,” John says, pressing into the verb like he’s pressing into Marcus’s vertebrae with a gun. “And don’t lie. You look like you want to jump me every time I cock my gun.” 

“That’s pride,” Marcus tells him. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re twitching less.” 

John strides across the room in long steps and leaves Marcus no room to maneuver unless he wants to compromise his bourbon. His fight or flight instinct always kicks in right around now; it’s very rare that he would freeze. But then again, Marcus has always made natural exceptions for John, as if the man was a furious quick-foot river eroding his way through the gorge that was Marcus’s being. 

“Bullshit. I can feel you twitch.” John’s thumb is hovering meaningfully over Marus’s belt buckle. 

And Marcus _is_ undeniably fucked after that. But in a good way. 

 

Helen gazes at him for a long moment and changes the subject: “Do you remember that time you came over and made us affogato?” 

“I remember your place lacking seriously in good espresso.” Marcus agrees, just grateful for the switch in topics. “It gave me serious distress.” 

Helen reaches out and presses her thumb right where Marcus’s heartbeat ought to be, “You don’t seem like a guy who suffers from distress.” 

“I did once. It just took a lot of practice,” Marcus says; he doesn’t know why, but it seems important that she sees him for who he is. She undoubtedly sees some version of John that is honest enough for the man to want to stay like a loyal dog of his own accord, makes Marcus yearn for the same. If only for a moment. 

“Yes, well, if we knew you were going to do that, we would have kept some of the good coffee from the wedding. But we scarfed down the stuff.” 

“You’re a couple of heathens,” Marcus says, but he hopes that she takes that in good humor. “Neither of you have office jobs.” John certainly doesn’t, and Helen on the back of John’s good fortune doesn’t need to work, but she does some voluntary work for an arts charity as their videographer or something. “...You should at least take a minute to enjoy good coffee.” 

Helen says, “That’s something else I really miss. Good coffee.” 

“I’ll bring you some, next time.” 

For a long moment, Helen doesn’t speak, “...Tell me he’ll be okay?” 

Marcus doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t want to lie, but a lie would have come easy. But then the door to the hospital room opens, revealing John in a leather jacket, windswept hair, and knuckles that are stained with engine oil. 

“...Sorry I’m late.” To Marcus, John says, “...I didn’t know you were still here.” 

“He’s going,” Helen says. “But after you wash your hands.” 

 

“What I want?” John’s words are smooth enough but his hands stutter and that is telling. “I want.” 

“I can’t be a lighthouse,” Marcus says. “Nor would I want to.” 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Marcus feels a very old yearning in him open up like a wound. “Can we talk about this later?” 

“That’d probably be better, wouldn’t it?” John assents. “Wine?” 

“You drink it,” Marcus says with a wave of his hand. “I think I’ll go for a walk.” 

 

Pros of going for a walk: it’s a nice night. The air is crisp. 

Cons of going for a walk: The sidewalk is public property, not Continental grounds and therefore fair game. While Marcus is grateful for the impromptu exercise and dispatches two Russian goons in quick succession and is making pretty pretty good headway on the third (or is it the fourth?). Things are moving quickly and one against twenty is just not very good odds. Marcus feels the heel of someone’s palm strike him hard at the back of his head. After that, there is a sharp, telling stab near his knee, and he’s out like a light.

Marcus should have brought his guns. 

 

“Why is John Wick not dead? And why the _fuck_ is Perkins dead in your bathroom?” 

Killing Perkins had been a spur of the moment decision. One that Marcus is going to think back on and possibly regret. But then again, maybe he wouldn’t. The only thing worth missing about the woman is her cunt and maybe the way she wields a butterfly knife: all style, no substance, but deadly precision. And that is a very strong maybe.

Marcus’s head is spinning and all of his nerves seem to be suddenly off kilter and numb. “We’re casual friends. And unfortunately she uh, slipped on some soap. Trust me, it was kinda awkward for me too.” 

Viggo Tarasov makes a gesture and someone thwacks Marcus upside the head. Marcus spits out blood. He is wishing that he had had more of that Chianti to dull the pounding that is insistent at the base of his skull. 

“Try again. A serious answer this time, if you please.” 

“Your new dentures,” Marcus says. “I wanted to make them nice for you. I know how picky you are.” 

Another hard thwack, and Marcus is thinking that he might faint, but then a snub-nosed barrel is pressed against his temple, and that wakes him up. Marcus allows himself the luxury of thinking about John. John with his young, wry smirk. 

“If you kill me, Iosef is as good as dead. I don’t care which safe house you got him in, even if the safe house isn’t in this fucking continent. Never mind how many guys you have guarding him around the clock. John is a bloodhound about this sort of thing. You should know better. He was your dog for the better part of a decade.” 

Viggo wavers, “If I let you go, I want a guarantee that no harm will come to Iosef.” 

“I can’t make that guarantee. You know that. If you want any sort of a guarantee, get me a phone.” 

 

“Marcus?” 

“Hello, John.”

“You sound terrible.” John doesn’t ask him if he is all right. 

Marcus laughs and hacks up blood, “I’ve always hated going to the dentist.” 

There is a dead silence at the other end. The goon that is holding the receiver to Marcus’s ear is working up a cold sweat. “...Is he there?” 

Viggo gestures for the phone and gets it, “I’m here, John. As is Marcus, for the moment.” 

“You had no right to take him, Viggo,” John says, ice cold instead of his usual heat. “This was our beef, or not even. You could have, I don’t know. Taught your kid some fucking manners or buy him a goddamn new car.” 

“I’m not unfamiliar with Iosef’s shortcomings,” Viggo sighs. “And as I said before, I apologize on his behalf.” 

“Not good enough,” John says tightly. “My dog has a limp for the rest of her life. I’d be well within my rights to demand that Iosef be made a cripple. And not exactly a pretty one, either.” 

“ -- That is out of the question.” Viggo’s jaw tightens. 

“Let Marcus go,” John says. “I’m not even going to say pull the contract on me because I’m enjoying the exercise. If someone gets me then fair is fair. But let Marcus go.” 

“You little shit,” Viggo says, mostly unconvincingly. 

“Or I will kill Iosef and make you watch; or if you prefer, send him to you piece by piece. Starting with his teeth and his tongue.” John responds, “Your choice. And believe it or not, Viggo -- you have a choice, like I didn’t. It’s something my wife said once: that you shouldn’t always be judged by your mistakes.” 

A blinding sharp pain twists deep into Marcus’s consciousness. Someone must have knifed him pretty good on command. It’s almost funny and pathetic how much John commands his attention even though Marcus is, admittedly, in a very bad way. The conversation becomes muffled then and hard to follow. Through a quickly thickening fog, Marcus catches the words _carotid artery_ , _professional courtesy_ , and then Viggo swearing at the dial tone. 

Marcus doesn’t make a sound. He tries to think of John again, but a sudden sleepiness takes a hold of him.


	5. Reawakening

Afterlife looks a lot like the interior of a Continental suite and Marcus doesn’t believe in the hereafter, per se, but this is all seeming a bit on the nose. 

There’s even a Winston-shaped phantom by the bed. But when he touches Marcus’s hand, the man feels real and solid. 

Winston pre-empts his query before he can put it into words, “No, Marcus, you’re not dead. But you did lose quite a bit of blood. Good thing John knew your blood type.” 

His head is swirling with questions, but honestly, first Marcus will bask in the joy of being able to move his fingers. Oddly enough, nothing feels broken. 

“...Where is John?” 

“He’s being treated for wounds of his own,” Winston says, in the tone that implies disappointment in Marcus for asking such an obvious question. “They are not severe, well -- I mean, no more than usual.” 

“Man’s a machine,” Marcus laughs, but then things hurt so he stops; that is something else he has learned, not to try himself unless he has to. “And Viggo? And the contract?” 

“Left the country, the last I heard, taking his son with him. Possibly back to the Motherland, where young Tarasov’s stupidity probably won’t be looked upon any more kindly. I hear his arm is broken, and several of his ribs. But he still has all of his teeth. All very… _restrained_ , if you want my opinion.” 

Then Winston adds, “As for the contract it was rendered null and void, as of three hours ago. I am not complaining about the surge in business, but the disappointment that’s floating around the lobby and the bar is just _depressing_.” 

“Ah,” Marcus closes his eyes again. “Good.” 

 

Sometime in the afternoon, John comes to see him. His limp is more pronounced than Marcus remembers but he’s clean, wearing a suit, and has even trimmed his beard. The effort on John’s part is warming and appreciated. 

“How long was I out?” 

“You look like you needed the rest,” John says calmly, and there isn’t anything in his voice that suggests that he is unhappy to not be going scorched earth on basically everybody. Marcus is forever after John to be a bit more subtle, to save his sanity; the lesson has been decades in the taking, but now the finer tenets of Marcus’s teaching seems to have sunken in. 

“Probably.” 

“Moon says you’ll need crutches, for at least the next ten days. I’m --” 

“Don’t say it,” Marcus says. 

“-- Sorry. I shouldn’t have been so late. That was all I was going to say.” 

Marcus rolls one shoulder and leans himself gingerly up on one elbow, “There wasn’t anything you could have done. I, on the other hand, apparently have things to brush up on.” And Marcus is going to get right on that, as soon as he is off crutches. John has always been the better out of the two of them when it comes to close-range combat, but Marcus is thinking that he might do some training on his own before engaging John as a sparring partner. There is no need to feed the man’s ego any more than it’s already been. 

John grins, “Or maybe you should think about retirement. We can go on a vacation to celebrate a job well done. You’re at the age for it.”

Marcus says, “Fuck you.” 

A knock sounds on the door then, revealing Charon who has Daisy tucked under one arm. But in his other hand is a leash, which is unexpected. It is, after a moment of adjustment, that he notices the leash being attached to a black-gray pit bull with surprisingly gentle eyes. Marcus is sure that it’s the eyes, that’s how this new dog got to John, who previously only had eyes for Daisy. 

“Who’s this?” 

“I procured some antiseptic from a pound,” John says by the way of explanation. “He wouldn’t stop looking at me. Figured you could use an escort the next time you took your evening constitutional.” There was a lot of Winston in that sentence just now; a reminder to Marcus that John wasn’t just _his_ , but a collective effort. He was going to let that go, for now. 

So it was the eyes after all, Marcus makes a clicking noise and the pit bull stepped towards the bed, hesitation notable in his steps, “Hello boy, you have a name?” 

The pit bull noses at Marcus’s open palm. 

John shakes his head, “I’m terrible at names.” 

Charon looks between them, as if trying to puzzle out what they weren’t saying to each other. Then he gives up and wishes both of them a speedy recovery, with an added admonishment to John to not overextend himself.

After that, Charon leaves, depositing Daisy beside Marcus on the bed. She is quick to scramble over Marcus, making a soft noise at the pit bull who is still acquainting himself with Marcus’s palm. The sound isn’t entirely unfriendly. 

John smiles, “I think they’ll get used to each other.” 

“Yeah? Me too.” 

 

Along with their order of ducks confit and golden crisp potatoes twice fried in duck fat, a bottle of Chianti like last time, the management sends them each a pint of dark black porter brewed near the Manager’s favorite holiday spot near the Lake District in the north of England. The Lake District has served as inspiration to many Romantic Poets (especially Coleridge, who was well into his drugs) and features a number of nice walks, many of them non-extraneous excursions with fantastic views to enjoy at one’s leisure. 

Moreover, porters and stouts are apparently meant to replenish the amount of iron in one’s system after an individual has lost a lot of blood.

“Or this is Winston’s way of telling us that we need to go on vacation,” Marcus says, putting his nose to the brim of his pint. The drink smells warming, nutty, and bittersweet. Almost like coffee, “Or maybe Winston’s just losing it.” 

“I’m pretty sure Winston is listening to us right now,” John says with no small amount of irony. “I should probably be checking those domes for a bug.” 

“He wouldn’t. You know how much Winston defers to manners and tradition. That would almost certainly be rude.” 

“Maybe,” John doesn’t sound entirely convinced at this, but he doesn’t get up to check under the domes. It’s another moment before John takes in a deep inhale and lets it out again, “You told me once, that you didn’t want people to grab us by the balls in a certain way.” 

“I did say that,” Marcus agrees after a brief pause, “I was…” He trails off, unsure of his next words. He’d admitted something to Winston long ago, long before he’d understood the lasting implications of saying that particular thing out loud. It was almost bad as the other thing, which he was not going to say, ever. Marcus switches tactics, hoping that John is not going to dwell too long on the pause -- "I think I'm still right." 

John doesn’t seem to have noticed, lost in his own thoughts, “I remember everything that you’ve ever said to me, you know. But things will be different now, Marcus. -- I get to be the lighthouse this time.” 

Marcus’s heartbeat is in his throat, “What did you say?” It must be the drugs still. Maybe he should be taking it easy on the booze. Moon dislikes it when his patients drink, but the doctor has since resigned himself to the oft- repeated mantra: “It is not so good. But it will not kill you.” 

“She liked your analogy,” John says. “Among other things, it gave her an excuse to also shove Virginia Woolf at me. It’s a novel about a _lighthouse_ , John, she said. _You’d like it._ I kept falling asleep. All I remember is the stew. They have stew once, about halfway through, don’t they? Stew or soup. That’s about all I remember.” 

“Don’t look at me,” Marcus says. “I’ve never read it.” If the book is really that boring, he will think about acquiring a copy for his next flight out to wherever. Maybe the Lake District, maybe somewhere else. 

Marcus wants to ask, most of all, _what other things_ , but it’s not as if they don’t have time, and this doesn’t seem the place. He thinks that he is looking forward to going home again; the coffee here is just not the same. 

“I miss her,” John says. “I miss her so fucking much.” 

“Me too,” and Marcus means it. “She kept you sane and out of trouble. Now I get the worst parts of my job back.” 

“The family was called Ramsay,” John says, choosing to ignore him after a brief pause of his own. He turns his gaze towards the pit bull, who was sat on its haunches near the bed. “...Hey, Ramsay.” 

The dog lifts his head, listening and waiting like the rest of the room. Like Marcus’s next heartbeat. 

The dog doesn’t move after that, and John is forced to admit, “That’s a terrible name for a dog. I’ll keep thinking.” 

Marcus says, “You do that. Or give him some time, he’ll probably come around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I may continue to do the next two movies with John/Marcus plus dogs at the center, so please be on the lookout for those!


End file.
